“Yeah suh. I heard the major yellin’, suh. So I goes out an’ I sees ’im, an’ I asks, ‘what happened, major, suh,’ and he say, ‘In Captain James’ tent.’ I say, ‘The Capt’n, suh?’ An’ the major say, ‘private, come help me,’ so I come. That’s the truth, Mista James, suh.”
“I see,” Harrison nodded. “When you got to the tent, what did you find?”
“The capt’n was a layin’ on the floor. Blood everywhere, suh.”
“Where was the gun?” Harrison asked.
“I see the major wit’ it. Yeah suh, I ’member,” Peck replied. “The major had it in his hand. He ask me to take it an’ lock it up.”
“Do you remember anything else? Anything out of place? The furniture?”
“The furniture, suh? No, suh.. I seen the capt’n on the floor jus’ starin’ up. Blood ever’ where. It were awful,” Peck told him.
“Private, can you give me a better description of what you saw?”
“The capt’n was layin’ on the floor wid his arm out like he be reachin’ for somethin’, on his back he was. Yeah suh, that’s how I seen it. Blood was ever’where. An’ his head….” Peck became nervous and agitated. He jumped up. “His head, suh. Oh, it were terrible. Terrible what I seen.”
“Yes,” Harrison answered sadly. “Anything else, Private? About the inside of the tent?”
“The inside of the tent, suh?” Peck said. “Don’t know nothin’, suh. Al ah could see was the capt’n and the blood.”
“Thank you, private. Please ask Sergeant Parilla to come in.”
“Yeah, suh.” Peck turned and left the tent.
Juan returned shortly with coffee cup in hand. “Was the private helpful?” he asked.
“Nothing new, Juan,” Harrison told him. Then he told Juan about his discussion with the bartender, and explained in great detail the death of Lieutenant Floyd.
Juan listened thoughtfully. When he was certain Harrison was finished, he asked, “Does La Señorita Washington know of the shooting last night?”
“I don’t know,” James shrugged. “Is it important?”
“I believe she has some interest in the hermano of Captain James.” He smiled brightly.
“What about her brother?” Harrison asked. “He might take a shot at me, eh Juan?”
“Ah, señor, again you do not understand,” Juan said, then paused, waiting for Harrison to speak again. When he didn’t, he said, “What you do now, amigo?” He stared into his empty cup, but he was listening for Harrison’s reply.
“Do you think I can find out anything new if I go to San Antonio? To the court martial?”
Juan shrugged. “No se. If you believe your brother’s death is part of the Houston troubles.” He looked around the tent. “Our troopers are punished because of Houston, amigo. Go to San Antonio, see for yourself,” he said. And get out of Columbus to where it is safer for you, he thought.
“Did you know the leader of the mutineers personally? This man named Henry? I’ve heard things about him. Good and bad.”
“Sí, señor. He was first sergeant, like me. He was with I Company. Henry was one very tough hombre with his soldiers, but they respect him.”
“Was he a man who would lead rioters?” James asked.
“He did,” Juan replied simply. “But that is an easy thing to say. And what does it mean? Go to San Antonio, Harry.”
“He refused to follow orders in Houston, didn’t he?”
“Is that important, Harry? Sergeant Henry and me, we fight in Cuba in ’98. Against the Spanish bastards. I know he was a very brave man and a fine soldier. Now he is dead, too.” Juan shook his head. “No comprendo.”
“What drove him? Anger?” Harrison struggled to understand.
“He’s angry with American laws. He speak to me mucho about African people. It make him angry, Harry, the way white people treat them. In Houston, he tell me, he say, ‘Juan, I never get up for a white man on the trolley. I never do this. Negroes have rights, too.’ He tell me this all the time.”
“What do you think about that, Juan?”
“Harry, I am soldier in the United States Army. I do my duty. But I know this, eh? I know I am a man just like you. And Sergeant Henry also was a man.”
“You’re a wise man, Juan.”
The sergeant smiled. “You are learning, mi amigo.”
“What do you know about Lieutenant Floyd?”
Juan looked at James before he answered. “Harry,” he said. Then he paused to collect his words. “I do not know what enemies would kill him. An hombre who owes money is better left alive, no?”
“He knew something, Juan. About gun smuggling. I think he was killed because of what he knew. I also think it involves this camp,” Harrison told him.
“What do you know about this?” Juan asked.
“I think his information had to do with stealing and smuggling rifles to the Mexicans. This concerns money, lots of money,” Harrison said. “I know that, Juan. Money is my business.”
“Men will do many things, some not so good things, for money.” Juan said.
“And it will buy a whole lot of honor. I’ve seen it.”
“No, Harry, that is not true. A man makes his honor. He cannot buy it.”
“I suspect that Lieutenant Floyd was not above breaking the law or forgetting his honor for money,” Harrison said. “And his death was no accident, Juan. As I told you.”
Harrison’s comments didn’t surprise Juan, but they saddened him. Harry is a good man, he thought. But Harry understands so little. He does not understand this place, or Mexicans, or Negroes, or even where his own honor lies. He wants a simple answer where there is none.
“I also think my brother was killed because of what he knew, like Lieutenant Floyd.”
“You must understand more about things here in New Mexico, Harry,” Juan said softly. “And you must watch what you say. And think before you say it.”
The two privates returned to the tent.
Sergeant Parilla motioned for the men to get to work sweeping the tent’s wooden floor. “Now, I am off duty,” he announced with a smile after looking at his pocket watch, a gift from his father. “Vayámonos!”
*
James chose to walk beside the soldier back into Columbus, his horse following, reins held casually in his hand. Neither spoke again about murder. “What more do you know about Maria’s business, Juan?” he asked, “that would have interested my brother?”
“Señor James, you must ask La Señorita,” Juan answered firmly.
“Is Maria supporting Pancho Villa?” Harrison asked.
“Pancho Villa is a great hero to the Mexican people. Do not forget this,” Juan insisted. “He fights to free the compesinos. Viva la revolución, no?” He smiled. “That is how Maria sees him. I know this, señor.”
“He’s not that popular these days on this side of the border, Juan,” Harrison said dryly. “Many hate him because of his raid on Columbus.”
“His attack on Camp Furlong was a military action, Harry. But General Villa did not plan on the American Army chasing him,” Juan explained. “He want the Americans to make war, but, I think, not so quickly. He want all Mexican people to unite against the United States. In this, he make a mistake.” Juan stated it without emotion. “Mexican still fights Mexican, and the people of the United States hate him more, I think.”
“Yes,” Harrison said. He was confused by the politics and the factions swirling about him. Who’s right and who’s wrong? He asked himself, trying to make sense of what Juan told him. The only reason I’m here is to find my brother’s killer. But there’s only one reason I’m here—to find my brother’s killer.
“Harry, it is complicado, no?”
“That’s a good word for it,” Harrison replied, believing it did not affect him. “How does Maria fit in?” he asked again.
“Los compesinos fight against the rich landlords, and against the foreigners. The
Mexican people demand tierra y Libertad. Everywhere we hear that, amigo. Everywhere! Your brother heard it, too. In Mexico. He tell me this.” Juan saw Harrison looking at him. “It is her fight, señor.” He flushed with embarrassment, realizing he had said too much. Calmase, he told himself. “I am sorry, amigo. Too much talk. But, I speak from here.” Juan pounded his chest.
Harrison only nodded.
“Americans worry about their gold, Harry. Not about the Mexican people,” the sergeant finished.
“The newspapers don’t write about that. They write mostly about the fighting between the generals. And Zapata?” Harrison asked.
“Emiliano Zapata,” Juan said. “He will take the land and give it back to the peasants.”
“Like Robin Hood,” Harrison smiled.
“Sí, like Robeen Hood. I heard this story. His plan for the Mexican people will give land to all the people. It is already written as the law, amigo. Zapata did that,” Juan told him.
“It must have been difficult for you when you served with General Pershing against Villa.”
“Not so difficult. Like I tell you, I am a soldier of the United States Army,” Juan tried to explain. “And I know we never catch Pancho Villa. We chase him through northern Mexico, the land of my father, but we never catch him. Everyone, even General Pershing, knew this.”
“Why did we do it then?” Harrison suddenly wanted to know.
“Ask your Presidente Wilson,” Juan answered shortly.
“Do you support Villa?”
“Amigo, you are a rich white man from far way. You should not ask that question to me,” Juan stated, and stopped abruptly in the middle of the road. “Escúcheme. As a Mexicano in this country, I must wear many hats and I must do many things. Some I do not want to do. But like you, Señor Harry, I am a cit-i-zen, too, eh? With opiniones.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Harrison nodded and smiled at the shorter man. “I meant no offense.”
They walked in silence, each thinking his own thoughts. The sun was now at their backs, casting long shadows in front of them. Overhead they spotted an airplane. It flew from the Army airfield north of town. “A Jenny,” Harrison observed, pointing at it.
Still pondering their earlier conversation, Juan ignored the low flying plane. “The padre teaches us to forgive. But this is sometimes not possible.”
“Juan, my brother is dead,” Harrison stated flatly. “Today, that is all I care about. I forgive no one.” He nodded once with cold determination.
The bi-plane flew off toward the north and the airstrip. The rays of the setting sun reflected off the brightly painted fuselage.
“Bueno, Harry,” Juan responded after a long pause. “But remember, amigo: The truth remains the truth, but changes its color…like the desert. So, amigo, I say prepare yourself for what you find.”
Harrison wondered what he meant.
The two men reached the outskirts of town, walking in silence. Then they separated.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was a knock on the door several hours after dusk, waking Harrison from a sound sleep. Startled, he instantly reached for the automatic on the nightstand, rolled out of bed, then stepped lightly to the door. “Who’s there?” he whispered. There was no response. Then, there was another knock. “Who’s there?” he repeated. But this time, disengaging the safety, he moved up against the wall and prepared to open the door.
With his left hand James lightly grasped the knob. Then, throwing the door open, he turned into the doorway, prepared to fire. His first reaction upon seeing the giant figure, dressed in a dark suit and holding a top hat in his large hands, was that the Angel of Death had come. The man, expressionless, with kinky snow-white hair, filled the doorway. He reached slowly into the upturned hat. He pulled out a folded slip of paper and carefully handed it to Harrison.
Like the earlier message, he noticed it was written in a graceful long hand. In it, Maria introduced the older Negro as Mr. Jones and requested that Harrison go with him. He decided that he wanted to see Maria again, and that was worth the risk.
With the old man patiently waiting, he took what he thought he would need. Before holstering the automatic, Harrison released the magazine to check that it was full, then he reinserted it with a quick snap. The old man remained standing like a stone.
They left the hotel going down the back stairs, unobserved, and got into a shiny black Dodge with leather upholstery. The automobile seemed completely out-of-place here in the desert town.
They drove the three miles to the border under a brilliant star-studded sky. The road was empty after they passed Camp Furlong, except for a family in a horse drawn wagon heading north from the Mexican border. It was a high-sided grain wagon filled with blond-headed kids, stacked furniture, clothes, odds, and ends. Whatever they were able to throw together, Harrison thought. A team of two weary mules pulled the old wagon. A man and woman, both dressed in dark clothes, sat on the driver’s bench. Harrison saw the old man cross himself as they passed.
“Mormans?” he asked.
The old man nodded.
Harrison had read that the Mormans had established settlements in the province of Chihuahua before the revolution. The Mexicans called them Colonia Dublan. They were now caught in the middle of the fighting. Bart had mentioned in his letters that Mormans had been useful allies during the Mexican campaign. Perhaps the Mexicans now thought of them as too useful.
When they reached the border crossing, a lone figure waved them through to the Mexican side. No papers or identification were requested, and no examination was made of their motor car. Just a simple wave of the hand by a younger, light skinned man dressed in civilian clothes. He had a Springfield rifle slung across his back. That was easy enough, Harrison thought. Mr. Jones waved back to the border guard as if he knew him.
Harrison saw two Mexican soldiers armed with older rifles standing in the middle of the dirt road as they crossed into Mexico. In front of them was a long pine pole positioned horizontally across the road.
One of the men motioned for the motorcar to stop, while the other walked over to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Folding his arms, Harrison waited, looking to the old man for a sign.
The old man handed the soldier an envelope from his coat pocket and flashed a broad smile.
Of course, Harrison thought, as he watched the transaction.
“Gracias, señor,” the soldier responded. “José, arriba!” he yelled to his companion. The other soldier immediately raised the pine pole and the shiny black Dodge passed through the gate.
Rounding a bend in the road a short time later, they saw a sprinkling of lights indicating a village in the distance. But the Dodge did not enter Las Palomas. Before reaching the outskirts of the pueblo, the old man turned west onto a trail that wound upward into the hills.
The motorcar groaned as it labored up the steeper incline. The old man changed gears. Harrison could tell by the easy manner in which he shifted the transmission that Mr. Jones was a very experienced driver. The engine responded with an unbroken whine as it crept slowly up the hill. When they finally reached the top—a mesa concealed within a circling stand of scrub pine—Harrison guessed they were closing on their destination. The car rolled on a hard dirt track through the sparse pinion forest. A high adobe wall suddenly rose in front of them. The trees and a bluff had hidden it from his view.
The black Dodge, now streaked with brown dust, stopped at a closed, raw wood gate. Its headlights illuminated two solid doors held with immense iron hinges. Sitting forward in his seat, Harrison waited. His right hand rested in his lap, not far from the holstered pistol.
The driver sat patiently with the motor running and did not use the car’s horn. Finally, the doors groaned as they slowly opened. Two figures carefully swung them away from the road to allow passage. No words were spoken. The two merely nodded at the driver to acknowledge him. They were very young, perhaps 13 or 14 years of age, and had no weapons, and
no hats. They were barefooted. The boys looked at Harrison with simple but intense curiosity.
“This is a fortress,” he said, admiring the thick adobe walls towering above the car.
The Dodge entered the compound to find a flurry of activity. Five large wagons were lined up in front of a two-story adobe building set against the eastern wall. Each wagon was stacked high with long wooden crates. He saw four men—all short with dark skin, dark eyes, and wearing sombreros—covering one loaded wagon with a large canvas tarp. Other men led a team of four mules out of the stables against the western wall to the front of the lead wagon. The men were either Mexican or Indian. Perhaps both, Harrison decided.
Mr. Jones stopped the car in front of the house, also a two-story wood and adobe structure with a red tiled roof. The windows were ablaze, with light streaming out into the night, even though the hour had grown late.
The old man parked the car, got out, and walked around to Harrison’s side. He opened the door for the white man to step out. James emerged from the Dodge, thanking him. At that moment, he heard his name called.
“Señor James,” a female voice called out. “You have come. Wonderful!”
Harrison turned to see Maria running lightly down the steps, illuminated by the brilliant light behind her. She was wearing a long, Mexican dress with a wide skirt of many bright colors and complicated designs. It was cut low in front, revealing the deep cleft between her breasts. Her shining, midnight hair was pulled back and held with a simple yet beautiful turquoise comb. Her dark eyes glowed. “Señorita?” he asked. “Is that you?”
Maria stopped in front of him, so close her dark eyes seemed to swallow him. Her breath smelled of honey and mint. Then, pressing her breasts against his chest, she kissed him impulsively on the cheek. Harrison noticed her perfume, dusky and promising.
The kiss surprised him.
“You brought your Colt, eh?” she whispered in his ear, smiling. Such a deep shade of blue, she mused, looking directly into his eyes. Like the feeling of steel on a winter day, they both chilled and gave her strength. She touched his face with her hands. “Come into my home, señor,” she said with a smile.
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